My septuagenarian father-in-law has the heart of a wanderer. So much so that when he first visited my hometown, he used his habitual morning walks to explore various parts of the locality. Like most Indians of his generation, he had never stepped out of his home state till then. So, when he visited the southern part of the country for the first time, he was excited by all the sights he witnessed – cows being milked on the streets, women adorning front yards with rangolis, temples and mosques opening in those wee hours for early morning prayers, restaurants offering fresh filter coffee, etc. Even now, years after that visit, he fondly recalls all those sights and speaks glowingly about the ancient traditions prevailing in my hometown.
I often compare myself with him – a man of his age preferring to explore by walking around, in places he doesn’t know, amidst people that speak languages he doesn’t understand. Myself on the other hand, young and with energy, a polyglot to boot, preferring to use private vehicles or book taxis to move around in new places, going from one point to another, seldom stopping to breathe in all that is new and peculiar about that place. He is a traveler by heart, while I am an ordinary tourist, a stranger even in my own place, never having wavered from routes that took me to my college or office, never having seen a major part of my own hometown!
The world, luckily for moored mortals like me, is filled with travelers like my father-in-law, people that step into the streets, take in all that smell and sights, get acquainted with the local customs and culture, be a part of the milieu and become one with it. Many such travelers have been able writers too, who could soulfully share their experiences so that people like me could feel a vicarious pleasure. William Dalrymple is one such traveler, an able historian and an interesting writer, full of anecdotes and cutting wit. When he writes a book about his first visit to Delhi, a city with a history that is as old as one of India’s greatest epics, if not more, you can expect it to be a great treat. And, a delight this turned out to be!
First published in 1993, during a period when India was soaking up the effects of globalization and privatization, the book recounts Mr. Dalrymple’s arrival in India for the first time, along with his wife, and stay for about a year before his return to his homeland for a brief visit. The book contains two strands. One strand follows Mr. Dalrymple’s arrival, his experience with the prevailing bureaucracy, the quirks of Indians stuck in the transition from the so-far cloistered Indian society, marked by the docile Doordarshan, to the ‘liberal’ Western culture, epitomized by half-clad VJs of MTVs and V Channels. The strand is made colorful by the presence of some interesting characters. His flirtatious landlord and the mildly-grumpy-often-friendly landlady, Mr. and Mrs. Puri, Balvinder Singh the boisterous taxi driver and the ageing Islamic scholar Dr. Jaffery are some of the characters that add vibrant hues to this strand as it moves forward.
The other strand travels in the opposite direction, drawing concentric circles in the sands of Time, tracing the history of Delhi backwards, starting from the British Raj and its gory legacy – the Partition of India. Moving backwards in time and moving across a few miles from the lush lawns of New Delhi to the dusty lanes of old Delhi, the second strand takes on hues of blood and tears, beauty and betrayal, vices and virtues. Detailing the now-fascinating, now-revolting Mughal history, describing the early days of sultanates, talking about the little-known Hindu kings like Anangpal Tomar, the book makes an ambitious effort at going all the way up to the pre-historic days of Indraprastha, the famed city of Pandavas, which stood in or around the area where modern Delhi now stands.
While the strand that moves ahead in time is full of trademark wit and sarcasm, eliciting chuckles often, the strand moving backwards lends a sense of pathos. The glory of old Delhi, its current decay, the yearning for those days of regal grandeur, the revulsion one feels at the fratricides and parricides that stained Mughal history, the pride for some of the greatest monuments that adorn Delhi’s landscape, the helplessness with which we bid adieu to that glorious past that is being irretrievably lost – this book will take you on an emotional roller coaster.
Interweaving these two strands, Mr. Dalrymple has produced a tapestry full of life and longing. As colorful as Delhi’s history, this is a must read for anyone in love with India, its heritage and history. Man, I felt a sigh and a tinge of sadness as I closed the book and kept it aside!
A.
